


Withering

by uNiCoRnLuVeR101



Category: Original Work
Genre: Hospitals, I Tried, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Murder, Original Fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:40:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22874908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uNiCoRnLuVeR101/pseuds/uNiCoRnLuVeR101
Summary: A nurse has to deal with an odd teen, he creeps her out.





	Withering

**Author's Note:**

> A short story I wrote for a school assignment, should I try writing actual fandom fanfics?

“You can’t just call the police on someone just because they look suspicious.” the head nurse gritted through the phone.  
“The lady sustained a hammer-sized hole to the head!” Margie remarked, “plus the kid looks like a sociopath, his eyebags are so purple, you can’t even see his eyes.”  
“No, follow protocol. I can’t believe you woke me up at 2AM for this.”  
“Sorry…,” she said apologetically. Margie sandwiched the phone between her shoulder and ear. She thumbed at her brooch on her left chest mindlessly. It was old, a pink flower. “I hate working the night shift. I know Whittler has a low crime right, but still, only weird people come at this hour—”  
“I’m going to hang up”  
“Sorry—!” Click. Margie tossed her phone onto the desk and looked at the CCTV. In the waiting room, the boy stayed crouching in the corner of the wall, yanking violently at the floral wallpaper. It was stained yellow and peeling, but no way deserved such maltreatment. She watched for a moment, then uneagerly headed for the waiting room.  
The door swung open and they looked at each other. The kid seemed 10 years her junior, was lanky, had a horse face, and sunken eyes. He got off the floor, plopping himself upon the nearest plastic seat. The boy had on a Supreme hoodie, black ripped jeans, and white Yeezys, clothes meant to monetarily impress, instead looked stale on him. Margie reminded herself to remain methodical. She flashed a smile, and approached the boy.  
The nurse crouched in front of the teen, whose face had a slight blush. “Hi, I’m Nurse Margaret, can I get your name?” The boy tried hard to avoid her eyes. Margie craned her neck, determined to make his frantically darting pupils focus on her. They ceremoniously continued this pigeon neck dance for an extended moment. The boy’s face turned an alarming beet red.  
“...Desi, Desi Mae.” the boy replied quickly. He was jittery, unconsciously scratching his forearm. It had scars. He hastily pulls the sleeves down, spotting the nurse glance.  
“I’ll assume the lady is your mother?” Margaret inquired. She clicked her pen and looked at the form. “What’s her name?” Desi’s looking at her now, but had no inclination to answer. She crouched there waiting, sandwiching the clipboard between her thighs and torso. She fidgeted at the brooch again. A piece of the enamel chipped off.  
“Katie Mae,” he spoke after a while. Margie penned down the information, “or Lockwood, Katie...Lockwood.” He hastily added. She stopped writing and looked up to inquire. “She..” Gulp, “had our names changed just recently.” The nurse quickly scribbled both down.  
“Is your mom currently diagnosed with anything, or on any medication?”  
Pause. A long one “Asthma,” pause, “uh, pneumonia, her allergies with... bird droppings.”  
“Got it, Histoplasmosis.” Scribbles, “Last thing we need. Is your family currently under Medicaid, or any private health insurance companies?” Silence. A longer one.  
“I think so, Medicaid.”  
She peaked again at his clothes. “Do you have the card with you or the Medicaid num—”  
“Y-you’re very pretty,”  
“Hu… huh?”  
“You’re kind, and patient, mother likes kind people. I’d like your phone number,” Desi leans forward.  
“W-wait,” Margie trips backwards from her squat, stunned.  
“We can go out on a date, I’ll take you to dinner. Mother would be overjoyed.” The boy leaned further, tone giddy and enthusiastic as he spoke, but his eyes remained contrastingly tired, sometimes twitching desperately.  
“S-stop,” Margie flustered. Desi halts. “I am flattered by your advances but this is a professional institution where I cannot become... involved in such a manner with a patient, let alone a minor.”  
The boy slowly deflated. The nurse released a broken exhale. She picked up the clipboard and pen, looked up at the defeated kid, and resumed.  
“We need your Medicaid number, do you have the card in your possession—”  
“I don’t know where it is.” He said solemnly.  
“Do you have contact information of any other next-of-kin relatives?  
“I don’t have a Dad.” He rudely spat. Margie didn’t specifically ask, but she was agitated.  
“Can you tell me his status? Is he dead or alive, may he have any possibility of knowing or obtaining this information for you?”  
“I don’t have a Dad, I don’t have a Dad, I don’t have...,” the boy mumbled on. He deadpanned. Margie rested the clipboard on the floor and shuffled awkwardly. The nurse glanced up, and saw the boy looking at her left chest.  
“...Do you like my brooch?” she asked with a soft apologetic smile.  
“I fucking hate it.”  
Defeated, Margie grabbed the clipboard and hurried out of the waiting room.  
\---  
Fidgeting with the bottle of prescribed Leukotriene modifiers for Katie Mae, Margie made her way towards the ER room, shaking the bottles like macarenas and humming. She stopped before the double doors of the waiting room obstructing her path. She prepared herself for any awkward interactions, quietly pushed the doors open and strode in. She scanned the room, relaxing in relief. She quietly tread past the napping teen.  
Margie placed the bottle upon the marble counter. It was pin-drop quiet besides the heart monitor sounding monotonously in the background. The instrument trolley stood hazardously around the bottom right corner of the bed, blocking the right door. She decided she’ll move it towards the wall later. The nurse propped her hand against the plain sink and sighed. Her shift was almost over.  
Margie took off her cap, tucked a loose strand of hair behind her right ear, and looked over at the hospital bed. She observed the calm rising and falling of Ms. Mae’s chest. The lady laid in a white smock with thick tubes travelling from the oxygen concentrator to her mouth. She was in her late 30s, had awfully tousled hair from the bandage covering her lopsided skull, and a prominent ring tan. Even when sedated, she still seemed vexed. The woman smelled nauseatingly of flowers.  
The nurse grabbed her cap, fitted it back on and headed for the door. A few steps out of the hallway, the heart monitor cried out. Margie whipped her head around and bolted towards the patient. She hastily placed a thermometer in the patient’s ear and gasped. The lady had sweat soaking through the collar of her smock. She knew what it was.  
Margie frantically slapped the staff button and cursed herself for not checking the woman’s temperature sooner.  
“Blood culture, serum lactate level, blood culture, serum lactate level.” She continued muttering as she reached for the syringes in the cabinet. The hospital staff’s hurried footsteps echoed through the hallway. The monitor sounded louder, she strapped on latex gloves and tore off the packaging of the syringe. The syringe was inserted half into the AC vein when the staff rushed in.  
“High fever 103 Fahrenheit, hypotension, a history of Pneumonia and Histoplasmosis related allergies. Most likely Septic Shock.” Margie quickly reported.  
A doctor quickly approached her “Hand me the syringe, get some vasopressors, I’ll tell you the needed antibiotics when—”  
“Doctor, the patient is hitting PEA.” Another sounded.  
“Grab some Corticosteroids too Margaret.”  
The nurse bolted out of the room and ran for the pharmaceutical cabinet, sprinting past the hallway and into the waiting room. She tripped over the foot of a chair, waking the teen up. She looked at him apologetically, picked herself up and continued, figured he would eventually be notified of the current situation one way or another. Margie sprinted into the cluttered storage room and grabbed the drugs. Out of breath, she made her lap back, passed the waiting room and noticed the boy’s absence. Into the hallway, she spotted him in front of the double doors. The heart monitor rang a consistent beep.  
“Patient experienced asystole.” The voice sounded tired. “Cause of death: septic shock.” Desi started to tremble. “time of death:... 7:48AM.”  
Desi released a guttural scream, forcefully pushing the doors open demanding to see the dead woman. Margie ran to the ER room, witnessing the staff restrain him. She approached to help, but Desi had violently flung another nurse against the instrument trolley. The staff stood stunned. Desi limped towards the bed. He held the woman’s hand, lacking affection, at the wrist, like someone checking for pulse. He smiled, quietly giggled, dropped the limp hand, and walked out of the room.  
\---  
Margaret sits at her desk, painting her nails with scrutinising detail; a hobby she had adopted to distract her from fidgeting after throwing away the flower pin. Polish bottles stood everywhere: on the paperweight, the mousepad, and the load of paperwork she had been procrastinating. She plants her hands flat on the desk, waiting for them to dry. The TV was playing in the background. A murder occured nearby, a man in his 40s, and lady in her 20s, stabbed to death by a teenager. She glanced up and saw the mugshot. Those sunken eyes were undeniably familiar.

**Author's Note:**

> I had a word limit. If you can critique it about pacing or any other things, I'll take em.


End file.
